


love to hate you

by silkroe



Series: love to hate you [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Facials, First Time Blow Jobs, Hair-pulling, Jean's a sap, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Sexual Inexperience, Waiters & Waitresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkroe/pseuds/silkroe
Summary: The only thing worse than a coworker you hate is a coworker you think you hate, but you actually just kind of want to pull his stupid hair until he cries. Alternatively: Jean comes to terms with having a crush on Eren fucking Yeager.
Relationships: Jean Kirstein/Eren Yeager
Series: love to hate you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795963
Comments: 33
Kudos: 287





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is me coping with no May chapter and no Eren appearance for 5 months. The Eren I wrote is kind of an amalgamation of every version of him we’ve gotten throughout the story…my apologies in advance for lack of consistency. Jean is just Jean and we love him for that.
> 
> Kiyomi and Niccolo make appearances? For some reason? Anime onlys, don’t worry about it.
> 
> It’s not exactly poetry but it’s honest self-indulgent erejean work.

For the record, Jean _hates_ closing shifts. He hates that after spending eight hours appeasing guests, peddling food from table to table on heavy ass trays, and running back and forth from kitchen to floor to refill some kid’s child-size soda cup for the umpteenth time, he has to stay cooped up at the shitty restaurant that employs him to do _chores_ that make him want to rip his hair out. Cleaning his section is fine—he gets that he’s got to be responsible for cleaning messes that he makes tips off of. Rinsing off the kitchen floor, completely dismantling the soda machine to disinfect the nozzles, _vacuuming the goddamn rugs,_ however, he can’t stand. But the only thing he hates more than doing all that shit himself is doing all that shit with Eren Yeager.

“Can’t believe I got closing duty _and_ you in the same night,” Jean starts, because lately he’s always the one who starts their religious bickering. “Unbelievable.” He’s sweeping away at his section like it’s offended him somehow, teeth gritting harder with each wayward crumb that fails to make it into the dustbin.

“I’m going as fast as I can so I can get the fuck out of here, Jean,” Eren says from his perch over a booth, not sparing even a glance over while he wipes at a particularly troublesome stain. “If you’d just shut your mouth maybe you’d be done sweeping your section already. You had the smallest one tonight.”

Jean hits the dustbin with enough force to send all the straw wrappers and crumbs flying out of it. “Yeah, because ever since _your_ manbun ass started working here, the manager keeps giving you the section _I_ used to have,” he spits out. “What, are you fucking her or something?”

Finally, Eren stops wiping long enough to level Jean with a glare. “What the fuck, dude? She’s like fifty?”

There’s a short, pointed silence. “Wouldn’t put it past _you_ ,” Jean then grumbles, somehow embarrassed by his own taunt. He finishes up sweeping, or rather _tells_ himself he’s finished, ignoring the sparse dappling of crumbs on the floor that failed to stay put in the bin. “Are you wiping the trays down or cleaning the windows?” he asks as he dumps his collection into the trash. He’s not changing the subject—he’s just trying to figure out what he needs to do next so he can get the fuck away from Mr. I Got Tipped Fifty Percent on a Hundred Dollar Tab Tonight.

“I don’t think Miss Kiyomi specified, so you choose.” Eren’s finally done wiping the table, and it looks to be his last one because he flips the rag over his shoulder before gesturing toward Jean. “Broom me.”

There’s something about the way he says it—the lack of a request in his tone, maybe, or the way his hand is already out expecting Jean to walk all the way over to him to hand the broom off, or perhaps how his half-lidded eyes look so utterly bored when he regards Jean—that makes him snap completely. Without a word and without taking his eyes off Eren, he lets go of both broom and dustbin where he stands and lets the handles clatter to the floor.

“Are you fucking serious?” Eren’s glaring again, which contents Jean. Yeah, he much prefers the life that glare gives Eren’s eyes as opposed to the calm, almost trancelike look his expression takes when he’s not being antagonized. It’s a step up from the fake smiles he dishes out to guests to charm them into tipping him better, too.

“Dead serious, Yeager.” Jean crosses his arms and smirks for emphasis, rooted where he stands. Eren doesn’t make a move for several drawn-out seconds—stunned into silence at Jean’s insistence on being difficult, maybe—before he strides over, quietly fuming.

“We’re gonna get out of here past midnight at this rate,” Eren mumbles as he bends in front of Jean to pick up the broom and co. As he does, for a brief moment, Jean shivers. Something just…comes over him. For nothing more than an instant, Jean feels the sudden and inexplicable urge to grab a fistful of Eren’s hair, wrench his head back and—

And _what?_

Before he can continue down that train of thought Eren rights himself and sends another scowl Jean’s way, this time up close and personal. When they’re this close, Jean has the pleasure of lowering his gaze just a bit to meet Eren’s. It’s one of his small victories over the guy. He prepares himself for a rude quip, a _you’re such a fucking asshole,_ anything at all _—_ but then Eren just turns on his heel and walks away, back to his section.

Well.

“Not in the mood for a fight, Yeager?” Jean feels stupid the second he starts talking. What is he doing, _begging_ Eren to fight with him? He wants to leave on time just as much as the next guy. Why’s he dragging out his own personal little shitshow?

He hears an exaggerated sigh. “Dude, I’m just trying to clean up so I can get the hell out of here. It’s late. I’m tired. What do you want from me?” Eren’s gone back to not looking at Jean.

The question, more rhetorical than anything, still gives him pause. The thought of yanking Eren Yeager’s head back, exposing his long neck, maybe seeing those green eyes go wide in shock _still_ hasn’t left the forefront of his mind yet, and with Eren’s question now rattling around in his head along with that imagery he wonders to himself: _What the fuck am I doing?_ He feels his body tense up defensively as his mind races, because no, no that would be _fucking weird_ to think _that way_ about the guy he’s definitely hated for months now. He’s not acting like a toddler that bullies the object of their affection, that would be ridiculous. But regardless, he does…pay attention to Eren. More than he pays attention to his other coworkers, anyway.

In an effort not to get too caught up in his own head when there are still a million things to get done, Jean rubs at his eyes to wipe those thoughts away. For now. There’s definitely some unpacking he needs to do with them, but he’s not about to sit through a mental rundown of why he’s so goddamn conscious of one lanky bastard when said lanky bastard is right in front of him.

“I’ll do the windows,” is all Jean manages as he heads to the back of the room to grab the Windex and, more importantly, get the hell away from Eren.

* * *

They do indeed end up finishing past midnight. Their manager sends them off with a little wave that’s mostly directed at Eren which earns an eye twitch from Jean. They leave together through the back door, a gust of winter breeze greeting them the second they’re outside.

“ _Fuck_ it’s cold,” Eren says, rubbing his arms through a ratty jacket that looks like it’s been through the wringer. It’s only then that Jean notices his nails, painted black.

_Huh. That’s new._

“You get a manicure or something, Yeager?” Jean sneers as they walk out to the parking lot in tandem, illuminated by scattered streetlamps. Their cars are a space away from each other—Jean’s bright and shiny Tundra looming beside Eren’s beat up old Optima. Eren’s now swinging his lanyard around in one hand as they walk—the other is still firmly wrapped around him, working up and down in an effort to fight the chill with friction. Jean wonders if he gets cold easily.

“No, my sister just felt like painting them, so I let her,” he replies flatly. Eren…really doesn’t seem to be in the mood to bicker tonight. So be it. Jean doesn’t want a repeat of his earlier whining to get Eren’s attention, so he lets it go and fishes his own keys out of his pocket and beeps his truck unlocked. Eren quickens his pace to reach the driver’s side of his own car and jams his key into the door handle—it’s not automatic. Jean watches absentmindedly as Eren slides inside, still rubbing an arm with one hand while sticking his key in the ignition.

Seconds pass, Jean doesn’t even realize that he’s still staring, but nothing happens. Eren is jerking his arm now, twisting his wrist back and forth with increased vigor. Not even a sputter. Eren’s head flips back before he slams his forehead down on the steering wheel, hunched over himself. And then it clicks.

Jean starts moving before he starts thinking. He’s leaning down at the passenger side door, knocking on the window without a single clue as to what he wants to say. Eren, still against the wheel, turns his head slightly to acknowledge him. Jean jams a thumb towards his truck.

“I could uh…I could give you a ride…if your car’s busted,” he says. He has no idea why the fuck he just said that.

Within the dimly lit interior, Eren simply blinks at him from where he sits. For a moment Jean thinks he didn’t hear him, and he’s _not_ about to repeat himself but it’s not like he can just leave the guy stranded, so he just stands there stupidly, hand still up and pointing at his truck. He then wonders, briefly, if Eren may actually be ignoring him. Then all at once Eren sits up straight, huffs what looks to be one of his signature sighs and climbs back out of his car.

“You sure? I could just call my brother to come pick me up,” is what he says, but he’s already locking his car back up.

“Dude, you’re obviously freezing. I wouldn’t want you to get, like, hypothermia or something,” Jean replies. He loses his snark but he’s not concerned for _Eren,_ specifically, he’s just being a good Samaritan.

And then the bastard _laughs._ Jean’s eyes go wide at the sight and sound, crystal clear in the night air. In the few months he’s known Eren Yeager he has never once heard him laugh. It’s a little low and throaty, the kind of laugh that peters out all too soon. The smile that accompanies it for all of a split second is barely there. Jean hangs on to its afterimage feeling only a little pathetic.

They both climb into the truck and Jean pushes the ignition to rev his perfectly functional engine alive. To accommodate his shivering passenger, he turns the heater on full blast without a word.

“Thanks,” Eren says, lowering himself into the heat. Then, “Mind if I smoke?”

Jean sends him a sidelong glance. “Like, cigs?”

“Yeah.”

Truth be told, Jean doesn’t smoke, and he doubts he’d appreciate the pungent odor of tobacco and poison that would undoubtedly linger in his car after Eren’s long gone. But again, for _some reason_ he only grunts, “Do what you want.”

There’s a low hum given in response, and while Jean gets the truck moving out of the parking lot Eren takes out a pack from his jacket pocket and frees a stick. After a pause he offers the pack to Jean, who shakes his head.

“I don’t smoke,” he says. His eyes are on the road, but he’d say more than half of his attention is focused on his peripheral where Eren is slouched down in his seat.

“Oh. Do you want me to open the window?”

“’S fine. You’d get cold again anyway.” When there’s no movement or answer, Jean continues, “Jesus, Eren, just light it, it’s fine.”

“You’re being awfully accommodating,” Eren says as he places it between his lips and does just that, yellow light illuminating the cabin for a split second before returning them to darkness with the cigarette sufficiently lit. It already reeks.

For the life of him, Jean can’t come up with anything to respond to that with, so he lets Eren’s words hang in the air like the smoke already curling around them. They sit in aching silence for a few minutes before Jean remembers that he has a radio and flips it on to some sports channel that’s basically a segue to plugging in his phone to listen to his own music, but he couldn’t be bothered to mess with it right now. The static chatter of burly-sounding men is enough to occupy his muddled mind.

Eren only pipes up to direct Jean like a GPS, lazily ordering him to “turn left here” or “take the second exit on the roundabout.” There’s a few times Jean sneaks tiny glances at him, and with each one he finds Eren with his head resting on the window, gaze cast outward, the long, vulnerable line of his neck exposed for Jean’s viewing pleasure. There’s no indication that Eren knows he’s doing this, and a few pangs of guilt churn in his gut. He still hasn’t found the time to decompartmentalize the mess of thoughts that remain on his conscience from earlier that night. Eren’s very exposed throat isn’t helping. With every deep drag he takes from his cigarette Jean finds himself feeling more and more suffocated.

Some thirty minutes into the drive, Eren breaks the radio noise with, “We’re almost there. Just turn into that street there, turn right, and it’ll be the first house on the right.”

Heeding his directions, Jean does as he’s told and turns into a shoddy excuse of a neighborhood. Jean wouldn’t exactly call this area the best part of town. Uncharacteristically stoic he says nothing, though, and pulls into a tiny driveway that barely accommodates his truck next to a sad looking minivan. The house itself looks depressing to match with weeds infesting the yard, a single bush that hasn’t been trimmed in years, and dilapidated shutters. This is where Eren comes home to every night.

There’s an awkward atmosphere about them now that Jean has parked. Uselessly, Jean’s brain can’t even manage to forge a simple “See ya” before Eren speaks up for the both of them.

“Thanks for the ride, Jean,” he says, opening the door and inviting in outside air to replace the heat and smoke. He’s not looking at him again, doesn’t offer a wave or a smile. “See ya tomorrow.” And then he shuts the door and walks away and he’s gone, disappeared beyond his front door.

The smell of cigarettes lingers around him.

* * *

Jean isn’t scheduled again until later that week which gives him some much-needed respite to reflect on the mess of half-baked ideas going on in his head. He considers talking to Connie and Sasha about it, but the only thing they know about Eren is from Jean’s stories of how arrogant and insufferable he is, so he decides to leave them in the dark. Bouncing around the mere idea of having a crush on someone he’s made out to be the antichrist to his friends doesn’t sound like his idea of a good time. Connie would probably just laugh at him, and Sasha…well, she probably doesn’t have the attention span to help him sort through his feelings. He’s a grown man, he can do it on his own, right?

As it turns out, he spends the majority of his days off thinking of anything _but_ Eren Yeager. Best laid plans.

Jean arrives at work early the next time he’s scheduled. He got lucky—his last class was cancelled, but since Connie and Sasha are both busy he has nothing better to do than sit in the parking lot behind the restaurant humming along to his music playing at full blast. Thankfully the handful of cars that accompany him are all empty, else someone may hear him unironically listening to Lana Del Rey in the middle of the afternoon. He’s so absorbed in _Groupie Love_ that he doesn’t notice a very familiar minivan that has pulled up a few spots ahead until its passengers are already out of the car. Instantly, he smashes his radio off.

It’s Eren, and…some bearded guy. Jean slinks down in his seat, _praying_ they hadn’t heard his music, but that particular worry is utterly forgotten as he watches the mystery man suddenly pull Eren into a tight embrace and plant a kiss on top of his head. Jean’s stomach drops, recoiling at the show of intimacy. Eren elbows the man away, looking a little annoyed but without any of the fervor he offers Jean when they fight. The bearded man laughs at something Eren says and ruffles his hair, mussing Eren’s already mussed bun a bit more before getting back in the van, starting the engine and driving away. Back to Eren’s house?

_What?_

Jean does nothing more than watch as Eren pats at the top of his hair, attempting in vain to fix the pieces that were dislodged before turning on his heel and heading inside.

What indeed.

He stays frozen in his absurd scrunched up pose while he replays the scene in his mind, over and over. He’s reminded of the night he drove Eren home—the only occasion he tried to sort his feelings into something comprehensible. By the time he got home, washed up and flopped on his bed, he still couldn’t quite pin down the reason why he was so bothered by Eren, why he wished Eren would just _look_ at him on his own without Jean needing to rile him up, how he suddenly had the urge to really know the kind of person Eren is, not just what makes him tick. Finally, Jean can see past his excuses and reservations about the shaky conclusion he’d then pushed away in the recesses of his mind. Now, the unmistakable acidic burn of jealousy roils in his gut at what he just saw.

He likes Eren. He has probably liked him for a long time.

And Eren has a boyfriend. Or…a sugar daddy, or maybe not because the guy is definitely pinching pennies, or—

His phone buzzes where it sits in the cupholder. Jean reaches for it, taps it alive, sees a text from Eren.

_you coming to work today?_

Jean glances at the time: a few minutes past three.

 _Shit._ He launches himself up, jumps out of his truck and hauls ass to the back door. Inside, he finds Eren standing in the narrow hallway, phone to his ear. A split second later, Jean’s phone starts buzzing again. At the sight of Jean, however, Eren’s expression flickers from startled to something else, something that’s hidden quickly before he puts his phone down and ends his call. Jean’s phone stills.

It takes him a moment, but it eventually clicks. “Were you…calling me?” Jean asks, panting a bit from exertion. He remembers the earlier text—Eren has never texted him before, not even to ask Jean to cover a shift he couldn’t make or to let Miss Kiyomi know he would be at work, just a few minutes late, traffic was bad…nothing. But here Eren was, texting and calling in succession because…why?

Eren slips his phone away and reaches up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I wanted to make sure you were okay. You’re always on time.” It takes Jean another few seconds to catch up—had Eren been _worried_ about him?

“Oh…uh, thanks, but I’m fine,” Jean manages. The space between them is distant as it’s always been, but there’s a different quality to it now. It’s tinged with uncertainty, uncomfortable. Jean feels as he had when he’d parked in front of Eren’s house, incapable of giving a simple goodbye. But then he remembers the parking lot and goes cold.

“Anyway, gotta clock in,” he mumbles, brushing past Eren. He wants so _badly_ to ask Eren who that guy is, the question is begging to be greenlit, but he refrains because what’s it to Jean anyway in Eren’s eyes? More fuel for attempted mockery and disdain? It isn’t any of his business but it also _is_ in the worst way. The pit of envy still present within him can assure him of that. He wishes he could bury this useless turmoil down deep, could ignore the twinging irritation that shoots straight through him whenever he catches sight of Eren. Instinct tells him that in this situation it’s best to evade and ignore. And so he does.

Nothing incredibly unusual happens during his shift save Jean spilling orange soda on a guest, ringing in a handful of orders incorrectly and accidentally running a meal to the wrong table. Jean isn’t closing that night, so Miss Kiyomi pulls Jean aside halfway through his shift and suggests he goes home. She doesn’t seem particularly upset, but he can never tell with her, unreadable as she is.

As he’s hanging his apron up in the tiny staff room, he hears the door creak open and shut behind him. He turns to find himself face to face with Eren, the one person he really wished he could’ve left without seeing at the moment.

“What’s with you tonight?” Eren begins, and—god, Jean hates himself for thinking this but it’s the first time Eren’s initiated a conversation with him since…he’s known him, probably. But this isn’t the time for Jean to have a personal parade over Eren _speaking_ to him unprompted; Eren is fuming and Jean, his sharp wit be damned, has no idea why.

“Huh?”

Eren, of all people, gestures broadly to him as if the answer couldn’t be more obvious. “You were all over the place on the floor tonight. I’ve never seen a shitshow that bad in my entire life.” He’s clenching his fists where he stands, and if Jean didn’t know any better he’d think that he spilled that orange soda on one of _Eren’s_ guests, maybe costing him a stiffed tip. But he hadn’t so he just looks at Eren dumbly, unable to figure out what exactly Eren wants out of approaching him like this. Regardless, it’s an invitation for an argument and Jean bristles.

“I was just off tonight. What’s your deal, Yeager?” Jean snaps. It’s hard not to look away from those burning green eyes. Eren bites out a single dry and unsmiling laugh.

“Off? You call _that_ just off? You’re lucky Miss Kiyomi didn’t fire you on the spot. And okay, sure, you were just _off,_ but what the hell does that have to do with avoiding me?”

“Avoiding you—what the fuck are you talking about,” Jean splutters although he knows _exactly_ what Eren is talking about. Throughout the entirety of his short-lived shift, Jean had kept his eyes off of Eren, kept his snarky “Out of my way, Manbun,” “Eat a dick,” and “Your face is so stupid” comments to himself. In his defense, however, Jean entirely did not expect Eren to notice. He always felt as if he were less than a blip on Eren’s radar, someone he tolerated when he needed to and disregarded otherwise. It’s admittedly part of the reason Jean always bothered him until now.

Scoffing, Eren crosses his arms. “You’ve said, like, five words to me all day. You’ve barely even looked at me since this afternoon. Are you still pissed about the cigarette or something?”

“No, what the—fuck, you thought I was mad about that?” It’s so childish it almost makes Jean laugh in spite of his foul mood. “And okay, narcissist much? Who cares if I look at you or not?”

All at once Eren’s cheeks flush, crimson on olive skin. It’s sudden and unexpected and Jean fights a shiver at the display. Exposed here is an entirely new side of Eren he’s never seen before, and a small voice in the back of his head tells him he wants to see more, wants to see how many yet undiscovered sides of Eren Yeager are hiding under that thick surface slab of apathy and self-control. He can’t believe this entire time he’s been trying to get a rise out of Eren when he could’ve been teasing him, could’ve turned him into this instead of merely pissing him off for the hell of it. This is far more gratifying than any glare or scowl or scripted retort.

“It’s not narcissistic of me to be worried why you’re suddenly acting like I don’t exist,” he mumbles, looking away. “Just—tell me what I did, and I’ll…work on it.”

With his head full of hazy thoughts, Jean isn’t quite sure where he wants to go with this conversation—but then the image of a forehead kiss and a minivan flash in his mind’s eye and he finds his course. “I wouldn’t act like this around me if I were you. Your boyfriend might get jealous.” There’s less venom in his words than he’d like there to be.

Eren’s head snaps up. “Boyfriend?”

“Or sugar daddy, or whoever the fuck that was kissing you in the parking lot earlier,” Jean clarifies. “Wouldn’t want you missing out on any extra cash because you’re hanging around me.” And now Jean wants to slam his head into the wall because there’s basically a confession in that last bit that he can only hope Eren is too dense to notice.

“You mean you were _there—_ dude, no, that’s my _brother_.” Eren sounds like he’s halfway laughing, incredulous and exasperated while the words he speaks hit Jean like a truck. A truck that carries a load of misguided assumptions and palpable mortification.

_You are a massive fucking idiot._

“Are you—but— _who acts like that around his brother?”_ Jean is nearly yelling, and now it’s his turn to blush. Maybe it’s because he’s an only child, but he truly can’t imagine being that handsy with his own family.

Eren sighs and rubs at his temple. “He’s just like that…I tell him not to do that shit in public, but he never listens to me. Between him and Mikasa I swear they act like I’m just a stuffed animal for them to hug on, like they think I don’t get loved on enough,” he says, shaking his head. Then, “So is _that_ it? You a homophobe or something?”

“Jesus, dude, no, I’m bi, how the fuck could I be a homophobe?” Immediate regret; Jean really needs to learn how to keep a fucking filter on when he’s flustered. His loose lips, however, earn him a few wide blinks from Eren.

“You’re _what?”_ Eren’s laughing. He’s actually full-on laughing, the smug bastard. _“You,_ with your truck driving, goatee grooming, sports loving, ‘I tell women they belong in the kitchen’ looking ass—”

“Christ Yeager, stereotypes much?” Although he sees Eren’s point, a _little bit,_ he isn’t about to take that sitting down. “And if we’re playing _that_ game, _you_ look like you fucking eat dick for breakfast, so shut the fuck up,” he fires back, and there’s a little truth in his words because with the myriad of ear piercings, the painted nails, and the hair, he kind of does look like that regardless of how many girls leave him numbers on his receipts. Jean has never really thought about it until now, truthfully—until the other day, when he wasn’t cooking up original ways to get under Eren’s skin, he was hardly thinking of him at all unless it was to talk shit about him to Connie and Sasha. Even so, he holds his ground, not taking a single word back.

And then there’s silence. The angry tension from earlier turns into…something else, thick and heavy in the small space between them. Eren’s back to crossing his arms and looking anywhere but at Jean. Briefly Jean wonders if Eren even has a table right now because they’ve been talking for way too long, but his attention is forced back on Eren as he says, “I mean…I wouldn’t put it _that_ way, but…”

The admission puts him in a state of freefall. Jean just stares at him, because what the _hell_ is he supposed to say at a bomb drop like that? Poke fun at him, like he would have just days ago? Confess? No, definitely not that one; just because Eren is gay doesn’t mean that he’d be into _Jean_ of all people, the guy who basically branded himself as Eren’s personal antagonist since he introduced himself. Maybe congratulate him?

He isn’t given much time to think at all because Eren is talking again, ripping him away from his labyrinth of indecision. “God, please say something. This is beyond awkward.”

“Oh, then, uh…are you single?”

Ah yes. Jean would absolutely love to curl up on the floor and die, preferably in the next five seconds.

He’s left dumbfounded as all Eren tonelessly replies with is, “Yeah, why?”

Oh, he must be joking. He must be, but now Eren is looking at Jean with his impossible raised and furrowed brow look, innocent and puppyish and so oblivious that it makes Jean lose all the restraint he hasn’t really been exhibiting this entire conversation. Jean may be an idiot, but Eren Yeager is leagues above him in straight up dumbassery. How is this guy even real?

“Just—forget it,” he says as he moves toward the door. He’s done. There is no way in hell he’s going to spell this out for Eren, he’s not in the mood to be utterly humiliated. But then Eren slides over until he’s blocking the door with his entire body, lips tight and brows drawn in a glower. Of _course_ he wouldn’t make this easy for Jean. In the five months he’s known him he’s been elusive, unyielding, untouchable. If Jean was ever going to get a piece of that he was going to have to fight for it—but not today. Not before he’s had enough time to figure out exactly what he’s doing, plan his steps, calculate an endgame. He’s hardly checked the first box: figure out you like the guy you’ve made a game out of tormenting.

“No, _why_ did you ask me that?” There’s a stubborn demand in Eren’s question, and as much as Jean finds himself loving the fresh attention he’s getting, he really wants to punch his beautiful stupid face right now. His fists are already curled, adrenaline running hot in his veins and cold on his skin.

“What’s your deal, Eren? Just drop it for god’s sake,” he snaps, reaching for the doorknob. He’ll just shove Eren away. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Of course, until tomorrow when he’ll have to face this hell all over again.

“Fine then, you tell me, are _you_ single?” Eren challenges. Leave it to him to take Jean by such surprise that he stops trying to yank the door against Eren’s weight to fully regard him. It doesn’t even register how close they are at first—his face mere inches away from Eren’s—his heart is so loud in his chest, he wonders if Eren can hear it. There’s only one reason you’d ask someone that, and while Eren may not be perceptive enough to figure it out, Jean definitely, painfully is.

So, sucking in a deep breath to steel himself, Jean prompts with all the courage he can muster, “Do you…like me, Eren?” He is acutely aware that his face is hot as the sun, his hands are shaking, and his blood is roaring in his ears. He worries he may have a heart attack in the painful noiselessness of the staff room. Yet, it’s almost comical watching several different emotions come and go across Eren’s expression: shock, bewilderment, maybe a bit of anger, then the bastard _finally_ he arrives at bashful to match Jean, red from his pierced ears down his slim neck.

“Like _you?_ I—” Jean can practically see the gears turning in Eren’s mind, and god, he had no idea Eren was actually this clueless. But Jean is certain now, and the waves of feelings that crash within his chest along with that certainty urge him forward. He doesn’t think as he closes his eyes and the distance between himself and Eren and is kissing him not on the forehead but on the lips, all sincere intent and want. He doesn’t push it, doesn’t try to slide his tongue through to taste the hint of cigarette he can smell. It’s chaste, simple, and over all too soon. When he draws back and opens his eyes, he watches as Eren’s flutter open too, revealing that stunning green. He’d closed his eyes, too.

“I—I know I’ve been an asshole to you all this time, but…I think I like you. Have liked you. Probably for a while,” Jean offers weakly. Eren just brings delicate fingers to his lips, brushing them as if tracing the ghost of Jean’s touch there. Their heads are still close, Jean could replace those fingers with his lips again, he _wants_ to, maybe ask for a little more this time. But then there’s a succession of bangs on the other side of the door ripping him out of the moment and it’s Miss Kiyomi telling Eren that he just got seated and she needs him back on the floor, _now_. So Jean pulls back, unsure of what else he should do, hoping Eren says something for him in the next few seconds because he _needs_ to know he didn’t just make a huge mistake.

“I’ll…I’ll see you tomorrow, Jean,” Eren says. That’s all Jean gets before Eren turns and leaves, gone beyond another closed door.

Jean doesn’t remember the drive home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I like Zeke—I think he’d be a hopelessly doting older brother if he and Eren had grown up together. Apologies for the stupidly fast-paced “plot,” I just want erejean kisses and shit with a sprinkle of plot, ya know? Modern Jean would definitely listen to Lana and Eren smokes cigarettes for no reason at all other than I like picturing him holding them with painted nails. Sue me!
> 
> WARNING for very awful horse pun in the next chapter and smut. Oh, and the restaurant these idiots work at finally gets a name!


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as he’s safe in his room, Jean gets on the phone with Connie. He doesn’t want to relive what might be the most embarrassing moment of his nineteen years of existence, but he knows bottling the entire fiasco up will just make him hate himself more, and while Connie may give him a bit of shit at first, Jean knows he’ll become serious when he realizes that Jean needs a little more support than just “Haha, sucks to be a dumbass.” Sure enough, Connie picks up on the second ring.

“Jean, my fantastic stallion, what’s good?” There’s background noise; Jean can hear Sasha and Niccolo going at it. He hopes Connie will be able to give him his full attention, because right now he needs it. Badly.

“Hey, Connie,” Jean starts. He doesn’t really know how to broach the subject yet. “Um…you got a minute?”

Maybe Connie hears the dejected way his words fall, maybe it’s because Jean only asks him if he has a minute when he’s being dead serious, but somehow Connie immediately shushes the unseen quarreling lovebirds and tells them to leave his room. How that guy lives with a couple that fights as naturally as they breathe, Jean will never understand. The bickering in the background ceases.

“Dude, are you good?” Connie asks. It seems like they’ll be able to skip the typical funny business and get straight to the concerned friend part. More than ever, Jean appreciates him for that.

Still, starting this conversation is going to be like giving a cat a bath. “So…you know that guy from work—”

“Manbun, right?”

“…Yeah. Him. Um…so shit kinda happened…with him.”

“Gonna have to be more specific than that. What, did you finally sock him or something?”

“No, I—god, please don’t laugh at what I’m about to say, okay?”

Pause. “I’ll try my best,” is Connie’s solemn response. Jean guesses that’s the best he’s going to get from him.

“I might have…confessed to him,” Jean says, and he tenses where he lays atop his bed, gaze fixed on his popcorn ceiling in the dark. He waits for a laugh. He doesn’t get one.

Instead, Connie’s yelling. “You _what?_ I thought you _hated_ that dude, or did I fucking miss something? You were literally _just_ talking about how you wanted to kick his ass, like, the other day!”

Jean winces. “Yeah, I did say that. And I really thought I hated him too but—I dunno, I’ve been doing some soul-searching the past few days I guess—wait. Let me back up. I drove him home the other night, right? And it was weirdly…nice to be around him, I guess? But before my shift today I saw some guy who is apparently his _brother_ kissing him and I felt jealous—”

“Dude, first off: breathe. Second off: ew?”

“Not on the _lips,_ jackass, on the forehead. It was kinda weird though—I thought it was his boyfriend or sugar daddy or something. Anyways…then today I was avoiding him ’cause you know I thought well shit, maybe I do actually like the guy and I’ve just been giving him shit to get him to like, notice me or something. I was a disaster working tables, too. So I got cut early, but before I clocked out he came to see me in the break room, I dunno…I told him I was bi, I found out he was gay, one thing led to another and—” Jean bites his lip, shame and remorse thick under his skin as he prepares himself to tell Connie what he’d done, “—I kissed him.”

“Well my god Jean,” Connie quips, and while Jean can hear the shit-eating grin Connie is definitely wearing right now, he feels like he sort of deserves that one. “Didn’t think you had it in you. So, what’d prissy boy do? Was he into it?”

“I…” Unblinking green eyes flash in his memory, the tiny _“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jean”_ rings clear as day in his ears. “I don’t think he was. He didn’t really say anything; he was called back to the floor and just left.”

“…Shit.”

Dripping with scorn, Jean chuckles lowly. “Yeah, shit is right. And I have to work together with the guy _again_ tomorrow. Our schedules always fucking overlap. I think we’re both closing, too.”

“Man…what do you think you’re gonna do? When you see him, I mean.”

Jean examines his free hand as he thinks. Tries not to let it remind him of Eren tracing his soft lips. Shit, now he’s picturing Eren’s lips, his gorgeous and sharp cupid’s bow prominent above a plush lower lip Jean had really wanted to bite until it bruised, the rest of Eren’s shift be damned. Why hadn’t Eren _said_ anything? Sure, Jean isn’t a pro at this whole romance thing, and while he hesitates to call it _romance_ he had surely felt something click when Eren was so close to him, floundering with Jean’s question instead of outright rejecting him. He wishes now more than ever that he could figure out what the fuck was going on in that thick skull of Eren’s.

Coming back to himself, Jean shudders out a sigh. “Dunno. Maybe just apologize, rip the bandage off and tell him I was just being a jerk and to ignore me. Shouldn’t be that hard for him if he actually hates me now.”

“Won’t that be hard on you, though?”

And there it is—Connie’s once in a blue moon insightfulness that drives Jean up the wall when it pops up but is something he needs to hear all the same. He considers that for a moment, thinking of more nights like tonight, pretending he doesn’t notice Eren who is impossible not to notice, walking on eggshells to keep their interactions to a minimum, acting like the months he spent devoting half his energy to work and the other half to making Eren’s hackles rise never happened. The lonely emptiness it brings reverberates through him—he closes his eyes and sees vivid green against darkness. Yeah, maybe he can’t actually deal with that.

“I don’t think I could keep working there, honestly,” Jean admits. “Like, if I go in and he doesn’t take it well tomorrow I think I’d just quit on the spot.”

“Damn. You must…really like this guy, huh,” Connie says lamely, but in his defense that’s all there really is to say.

Jean drops his hand to his face, drags it down for good measure. “Yeah,” he mutters, “I think I really do.”

They chat a bit longer, Connie offering bits of reassurance here and there, telling Jean not to get too caught up in his own head, that he’s a catch—really lays it on thick. As much as Jean appreciates the comfort of friendly gesture after friendly gesture, he knows Connie is talking in circles after the third “I’m sure it’ll work itself out.” In an effort to sound as grateful as he feels but also alert Connie to how exhausted he actually is, down to his toes, he thanks his friend and offers to buy the gang pizza tomorrow night, his treat, supposing he can get out of work before midnight. Connie tells him he’ll hold Jean to that, bids him good night, gives another “It’ll be fine,” before the line goes dead. Jean’s left in his wide room on his queen-sized bed, empty save the darkness and looming tendrils of anxiety of what tomorrow will bring.

He contemplates texting Eren several times. He stares at the one text he’s gotten from him, curt and detached out of context from the missed call it accompanied. The fear of being ignored wins out in the end and he flicks his phone away so he can stop staring at Eren’s contact, picture void save a single M that stands for Manbun. He runs over his entire day at work from start to finish, picks at how he could’ve acted differently then, said something more tactful there. Although it’s futile and only serves to make himself feel worse, he continues to rinse and repeat until he falls asleep on top of his covers, cold and restless.

* * *

Fridays are St. Maria’s busiest days. From the minute Jean clocks in—graciously scheduled an hour before Eren—he’s weaving between tables with the wherewithal of an Olympic athlete. One steak platter here, a round of loaded fries there, coming and going from the single POS station to kitchen to floor with speed and accuracy he hadn’t expressed the day before. Even when Eren shows up, he’s so busy he doesn’t have the leisure of letting him dominate his mind. He has tips to make, and he’s on a roll.

Sure enough though, by the time things die down around closing time Eren’s quiet presence becomes larger around him, replacing the newfound emptiness of the restaurant. They haven’t spoken since _“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jean,”_ and that thought looms behind him like a shadow as he worries at his lip. He drops off his final tab and heads to the back to grab a broom. He still hasn’t quite worked out what he wants to say, and although the blueprint of a plan he bounced around with Connie the night before could suffice, he still finds it a little weak. It’s too lukewarm—he needs to figure out if he really wants to make it sound like he doesn’t care, even if that’s far from the truth. Lost in his own head, he runs smack into someone—

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t—” Jean starts and stops all at once when he sees who he had indeed bumped into. Of course.

“’S fine,” Eren says, broom and dustpan in hand. They stand like that for a moment, wrapped in the bitter aftertaste of their unspoken tension. Jean’s hand makes its way to the back of his neck, rubbing self-consciously in an effort to stall out what he can say in this moment.

He decides to be indirect. “Can I…talk to you, after we’re done closing?” he asks. His heart is already thudding a little harder against his ribcage.

“I have time.” Eren’s attention is focused on messing with a loose thread dangling from his uniform.

“Oh, okay, cool.” If Jean could punch himself in the face without looking like a maniac, he would.

There’s no back-and-forth, no one-upping, no communication at all as they work, save the occasional inquiry of whose closing duty is whose. Minutes inch by at a snail’s pace and the silence is deafening, really, because Jean’s heart just can’t seem to calm down and with each completed chore he feels increasingly antsy. He _still_ hasn’t devised a script to follow, and by the time Miss Kiyomi checks their sections and dismisses them with another of her little waves, he’s forced to admit he’s going to have to wing it. He takes a deep breath as he clocks out first and waits for Eren outside in the cold, puffing clouds that remind him of cigarette smoke.

“Hey,” comes Eren’s voice along with the creak of the back door.

_Here we go._

“Hey, so uh…about yesterday…” His lack of resolve is showing in how he’s looking not at Eren but at the cement and Jean wants to kick himself for it, but he plods along. “I wanted to—apologize. For kissing you, and that stuff I said…I just got caught up in the moment, I had no idea what I was doing. I may not act like it, but I don’t want you to actually hate me, so…” His gaze travels up to check how he’s being received, and he doesn’t know what he was expecting but it sure wasn’t unbridled anger wrapped up in crossed arms and a scowl.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eren starts, stepping forward to mirror how close they’d been in the staff room yesterday. “Where are your _balls,_ Kirstein?” And then Eren’s hands are in the collar of Jean’s cheap, shitty uniform and he’s pulling him down to kiss him again.

This time, Eren’s mouth is open to match Jean, and as soon as he recovers from their teeth clicking together with enough force to hurt, Jean is working his tongue along Eren’s. It finally occurs to him to close his eyes as the hot taste of cigarettes is pushed into his mouth, and he decides maybe those little death sticks aren’t so bad as he bites back, doing everything he didn’t have the courage nor opportunity to do until now. He doesn’t question it, just catches that bottom lip between his teeth, sucking, working his hands through Eren’s bun, making a mess of it. He roughly tugs to force Eren into a better angle, and his mind all but shuts down at the moan he receives in return.

Yeah. Thinking is overrated.

He shoves Eren against the wall, breaking apart to catch his breath. They breathe in tandem, harsh, still up in each other’s faces.

“I knew that hair was good for something,” Jean pants, feeling brilliant.

“This is so much better than your lame fucking apology,” Eren retorts. He pulls Jean in again, this time a bit gentler, deep and slow. Jean can’t help but agree.

It’s only when he feels tremors in the hands that are carding through his hair that he backs away again to get a good look at Eren. He’s wondrously red in the face and lips but he’s quivering. Only then Jean remembers that it’s cold.

Jean hesitates, even now. “Is your brother picking you up?”

Sly as an imp, Eren smirks, though his clattering teeth just make him look adorable. Jean feels his damn heart skip a beat. “When you said you wanted to talk, I texted him not to bother.” There’s an innuendo in there, and Jean doesn’t miss it.

“You mean…?”

To accompany an exaggerated eye roll, Eren says, “Yeah, dumbass, I thought you were gonna ask me out. Or at least ask me to go home with you or something. Not fucking _apologize.”_

Jean’s mouth goes dry at the implication of those words. He files away the thought that Eren is probably the worst person on the planet at reading any semblance of a romantic situation away for later. “I—I thought you were _upset,_ I thought you hated me,” he explains. He had no way of foreseeing this indisputably glorious turn of events.

“Jean, the only people who have ever kissed me is my family. How was I supposed to react when the guy I like was suddenly kissing me out of nowhere?”

Completely missing that first bit, Jean stutters, “The guy you li—”

 _“Jean,_ it’s fucking cold, can we get in your stupid truck already?”

And now Jean is grinning as he leads Eren to his truck hand-in-hand, separating only to let Eren climb in, taking it back and threading their fingers together once they’re settled, heat blasting them in the face. Who needs two hands to drive?

“So, you haven’t told me which it is yet.” Eren’s in that pose against the window again, the one that makes him look long and enticing, but he’s facing Jean this time, eyeing him through thick lashes. Jean sends a silent thank you skyward that he can appreciate him all he wants now, no more sneaking glances and indignity. Eren looks like a trophy, even in that threadbare jacket, even with his hair sticking out of his bun at odd places from where Jean had messed with it.

“Which what?”

“Well, we could make this a one-time thing that begins and ends with you fucking me, or we can try to go for something a little more invested,” Eren drawls, and the way the words _fucking me_ come off his tongue almost make Jean swerve in the middle of the empty road. Now he’s picturing Eren under him, sweat-slicked and holding on to him, maybe screaming his name as Jean fucks him rough because he has a feeling that’s how Eren likes it, unbridled and ragged and satisfying. He squirms a bit in his seat.

Not to be outdone and feeling a little bold, Jean gives Eren’s hand a squeeze and shoots back, “That’ll depend on your performance.” He expects a laugh, perhaps a playful punch to the arm, but suddenly his hand is empty and Eren is sitting up, eyes off Jean and on the road. Did he say something wrong? “Sorry, sorry, I was just kidding. I—yes, I’m asking you—”

“I’ve never—um. I’ve never _actually_ done it before,” Eren says, his bravado lost. He’s gone back to plucking at threads and leaves Jean to deal with the way those words hover between them.

“…Huh? But you—when I said _dicks for breakfast—”_

“I literally just told you I’ve never kissed anyone,” Eren snaps, and while Jean finds that a little hard to believe considering he _thoroughly_ enjoyed how they’d made out, he knows Eren has no reason to lie. And, yeah, now that he thinks about it Eren did say something along those lines.

“I—we don’t have to rush that at all,” he amends, “I only want to do what you’re comfortable with. Obviously. We can go slow.” A tad uncertain, he continues, “You at least know _how,_ though, right…?”

“God, dude, yeah, I’m not an imbecile,” Eren says, and Jean really needs to stop pushing it before he loses Eren completely for the night because he doesn’t know how to shut up. He grasps at straws, trying to think of something he can change the subject to. The first thing to come to him is the first thing that sticks.

“You said you liked me—since when?” Jean blurts. _Nice save, jackass._

Eren groans. “You really…ugh. Since the Christmas party.”

Retracing his memory back weeks ago, Jean squints, trying to recall what exactly had happened at their employee Christmas party. He comes up blank, and of course he does—he had been wasted from pre-gamed start to blackout finish, surrounded by fine booze at one of their coworker’s place. They’d had Patrón Silver. _Patrón Silver!_ He never dared ask anyone what he’d done that he didn’t remember, that was for his coworkers to know and for him to never find out. Until now.

“I hate to say this, but I have no idea what I did at the Christmas party,” Jean says. “Mind refreshing me?”

That earns him a hushed laugh, and _god_ he could never get sick of that sound, refreshing as a breeze in summertime. “You were _plastered._ It was hilarious. At one point, Ymir dared you to do a strip tease on the table and your crazy ass slurred _bet_ and got up there and ripped your ugly Christmas sweater right off. It wasn’t even a strip tease, you just straight up yanked it off and threw it away. I was laughing my ass off until I realized—I mean. You obviously work out…” Eren’s eyes are far away, as if he’s recalling something pleasant. Regardless of how fucking mortifying that sounds, Jean is giddy with the idea that Eren had apparently liked what he saw.

“But you never acted any differently around me,” Jean says, careful, prodding a little but not too much.

Eren gives him a sidelong glance and slumps down in his seat. “Yeah, well…you were still an asshole. And I totally assumed you were straight. I mean,” he one-handedly gestures around the interior of the truck, “ya know?”

“Ah, right,” Jean says in good spirit, “my truck driving, goatee grooming, sports loving, ‘I tell women they belong in the kitchen’ looking ass. I remember.”

Finally, Eren nudges him with his knuckles, and the tension dissipates as if it was never there. “You literally look like the human embodiment of heterosexuality,” he says, and Jean doesn’t really mind the insult because there’s fondness in those words. He cracks a grin at Eren, who grins back and slides a warm hand once again into Jean’s.

It doesn’t even occur to him to let Connie know they’ll have to call a rain check on pizza night.

The ride is much shorter to Jean’s place, a humble one-bedroom apartment his parents pay for that’s just ten minutes from St. Maria’s. He pulls into his parking spot and they separate again to sprint across the lot, Eren bounding after Jean up the stairs and down a short hallway to his door. They’re laughing at the way Jean claims he won a race that was never announced while Eren just calls him an idiot because how is he supposed to know which door is Jean’s, anyway? Jean fumbles his keys, ever a Casanova, and he swears his hands aren’t shaking because he’s nervous and excited that he’s about to mess around with _Eren_ of all people, it’s just _fucking cold._ He finally gets his key in the lock and he wrenches open the old door, sunken in its frame from age and use.

Jean gives Eren no time to critique his meager décor as his hands are on him again, cupping Eren’s face as he coaxes his mouth open. They don’t bother turning on any lights as they travel inward, kicking their shoes off onto the shaggy carpet. Jean leads him to the couch and they fall onto beat up old leather, supports creaking in its effort to hold their weight. Jean finds himself straddling Eren, pulling hard on chocolate hair again, milking moans from him as he sucks on his tongue. He frees a hand that trails downward, slips up Eren’s shirt to settle on a firm pec and pinch _hard_ on an already erect nipple. _That_ wins him a choked gasp into his mouth and he drinks it in—this definitely isn’t Jean’s first time, and he knows exactly what he can do to get Eren yearning for more.

Reminded of first times, Jean pulls back a bit to let Eren catch his breath and to also survey his handywork so far. The picture Eren paints for him is flawless. The motherfucker licks those red and swollen lips, as if they miss Jean’s presence there. His shirt, hiked up above his chest, reveals a stunning physique, lithe and lean muscle flexing as he struggles for air. Yes, that shirt is going to have to go soon. And his eyes, there’s definitely lust gleaming in those half-lidded green eyes, and Jean breathes an inward sigh of relief. So far, so good.

“Eren, I want you to tell me if you want to stop, slow down, or if anything gets uncomfortable at all,” Jean says—whispers, rather; he feels as if he talks too loud he’ll spook Eren away somehow.

“Jean.”

“What?”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

Reassured and eager to get back to making Eren moan, Jean goes back down. But instead of going for another kiss he brings his mouth to the side of Eren’s long, glorious neck and tastes the salt tinged skin there with his teeth and tongue, inspired to leave his mark. He bites and sucks with practiced ease and he can hear Eren gasping obscenities in pleasure from above, his body writhing under him. Jean decides it’s the perfect time to explore that sculpted figure a bit more, so he runs his hand from his chest down his abs and past his happy trail to grasp the hardening length through Eren’s work pants.

_“Jean…”_

He releases Eren’s neck to reveal a perfectly dark and mottled hickey, dotted with teeth marks. Pleased that his efforts have paid off, Jean pulls up to catch one of Eren’s small moans in another long kiss before whispering against his lips, _“God_ you’re perfect.” He squeezes on what he can feel through Eren’s pants as he says so, and Eren bucks a little into the pressure, twisting hard enough to rip where his hands are curled in Jean’s shirt.

“Th-this, off,” Eren breathes, and who is Jean to say no? He sits back on Eren’s outstretched legs and pulls it up and off, tosses it away behind him into the dark. Eren struggles with his shirt-jacket combo where he lays, both stuck inside out over his head, and Jean helps free him from the ridiculous trap; he can’t help but smile at how charming the trifle is. Once it’s off he cups Eren’s cheek to gently rub under his eye, and Eren leans into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. He probably doesn’t even realize what that does to Jean, this unabashed attack on his heart. Jean wishes he could live in this moment forever.

Even so, it’s about time he gets things moving. Abandoning Eren’s cheek, Jean slips down until he’s eye level with Eren’s crotch and gives an experimental tug at the waistband. Eren, chin tucked, worries at his lower lip.

“You don’t have to—”

“Oh, I _want_ to,” Jean corrects, but he pauses anyway. “Do you not want me to?” He gets a hard swallow and little headshake in response, so he clarifies, “Can I or can’t I?”

“You—can…but I d— _ah,”_ he gasps as Jean gives him an extra squeeze, teasing, “I don’t think—I can r-return the favor…”

Jean laughs, tender and breathless and delighted that Eren is putting more thought into this than he needs to. “Just let me take care of you.” Although the growing discomfort in his own pants can’t be ignored for long, he can deal with it later, with or without Eren. To soothe him, Jean smirks and adds, “I’m a pro at giving blowjobs.” He receives a light smack to the head for that one.

He gets to work, but to spice things up a notch he decides to unclothe Eren with his mouth. Pulling on a corner of the fabric with his teeth, he unbuttons the pants to reveal the zipper with minimal effort and takes that between pearly whites, too, unzips slow and steady, gaze fixed on Eren as he watches Jean with this deliciously heady look that sends shivers down Jean’s spine. It occurs to him that he is the first person to ever give Eren head, and he wants him to see stars by the time he’s done with him. Anticipation bubbles warmly in his stomach at the thought of blowing Eren’s mind in this way when just days ago he thought he would have ranked below a pissant in terms of significance to him.

Eren is wearing plain black boxer briefs, cock already straining underneath. He’s by no means small, Jean can acknowledge that, and he realizes he’ll have his work cut out for him. With a firm tongue he moves up the length through the fabric and Eren grabs him by the hair tight, Jean’s name on his lips in an obscene manner that has him reaching down to fist his own cock through his clothes. He sucks on the head until the top of Eren’s boxers are as slick as the inside of his mouth and Eren starts _begging,_ “J-Jean, _please,_ just—please—”

Needing no further direction, Jean props himself up and leans back, adoring the small regretful sound Eren makes at his mouth’s absence. All at once, he grips Eren’s pants and boxer briefs and yanks down, slipping them behind his perch so Eren can toe them off. While he does, Jean admires the view. And…

“Wow.”

Flush against his taut stomach, Eren’s cock juts just to the right, already dripping precum onto tan skin. It’s pink from stimulation, and _god—_ Jean doesn’t think he’s seen a prettier cock in his life, not even in porn. It suits Eren, to say the least. He’s staring, he knows, and Eren throws an arm over his eyes—but no, Jean’s not having any of that, so he moves to kiss his arm, open-mouthed and letting his teeth graze Eren’s skin, coaxing to let Jean see all of him.

“Are you okay?” Jean asks. “Anything wrong?”

Eren’s arm stays firmly put. “’S embarrassing…”

So nothing too major. That’s good. The stubborn arm is concerning, though. “Eren, you beautiful bastard, look at me,” he murmurs, tugging at him without any real force. Eren moves his forearm away just enough to expose his eyes, and there’s this blend of want in the heat of his gaze mixed with apprehension in the pull of his lips, the tense in his cheeks. Jean offers a lopsided smile, understanding coursing through him as he leans down to kiss the corner of Eren’s mouth.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says. “You’re stunning. You’re like…” and Jean has never been great with reassurance, so he can only look Eren up and down to follow up with, “…really fucking hot.”

Eren stays still, and for a moment Jean wonders if he’s made a mistake—the possibility that Eren is having second thoughts sends a tremor of terror through him that aches down to his bones. But then Eren’s arm is gone and he’s pulling Jean down again to kiss him, a desperate hum falling into his throat as he meets Eren’s lips. Slightly assuaged, Jean relaxes onto Eren’s chest and into the kiss and simply lays there, runs gentle hands through Eren’s hair because he figures that’s what Eren needs right now. His fingers travel to rub burning ears, deftly catching on the studs that decorate them.

A few whispered sweet nothings later Jean remembers he _does_ have an agenda to get back to, and once he feels he’s comforted Eren sufficiently he shifts down, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his throat. He pauses to bite and suck on one nipple, rolling the other tight between his fingers and elicits this deep, guttural moan from Eren that goes straight to his cock.

 _“Mmgh, fuck, Jean.”_ Eren’s hands are in his hair again, gripping blond locks with shaking fingers. He continues moving until he’s eye level with Eren’s cock again and he takes the plunge, licking a hot strip from base to tip, engulfing the head entirely in his mouth, eyes on Eren. The hands in his hair turn vicelike; Eren’s head is thrown back in this incredibly debauched way, and his low half-stifled moans have Jean palming himself again. In hindsight, the decision to leave his pants on for this may have been a mistake. Preparing his throat for what comes next, he bobs his head inch by inch until he swallows all of Eren down to the base, curling his tongue around in a way that has Eren arching his back completely off the couch. He gets _loud,_ then, and as Jean continues working his cock, he watches Eren fall to pieces.

“So _good,_ J-Jean I—fuck—who would’ve— _augh_ —thought— _ngh…_ ” Oh, the pants were _definitely_ a mistake. To rectify the annoyance of mere friction not being quite enough stimulation anymore, he pops himself off of Eren and frees his hair from those hands, frantic to unzip himself, shrugging his pants down just enough to expose his own increasingly hard length. As he spits in his hand, he uses the short breather as a chance to look at Eren’s face—and what a sight it is.

With his mouth open and slack, glazed eyes directed at the ceiling and flyaways sticking here and there on his sweat-slicked forehead, Eren is a picture of pleasure before him. Jean is reminded of the first time he received head; it was messy and clumsy, more of a disappointment than an experience. Here and now, though, _he_ is the one turning Eren into this mess of broken cries and begs and need, and that knowledge sprouts something impossibly warm in his chest. Fondness, power, gratification—a multitude of emotions bloom there, all at once.

His sore throat barely registers as he grips himself, stroking hard and slow as he props himself up with his free arm to return to Eren’s leaking cock, opting to mouth his balls alternatively before deepthroating him again. The convulsion Jean feels around him is the only thank you he needs.

When Eren is close, he loses the ability to speak words altogether. Strong thighs crush into Jean’s sides, and Eren’s reaching behind himself clutching the armrest, nearly scrabbling at it, unable to purchase a proper grip. He’s screaming, now, too—broken syllables and _Jean_ , spurning him to go faster, get Eren to paradise. Jean, at the mercy of his own libido and those moans, is close too. He lets go of himself and starts pumping Eren as he moves up and down and Eren finally loses it, bucking up into Jean’s abused mouth as he comes, would-be curses and his name intertwined bursting through the room in a way Jean knows he’ll need to apologize to his neighbors for tomorrow. He wastes no time sitting up to swallow Eren’s release; his cock is throbbing with inattention, and in an insane moment of clarity Jean knows exactly what he needs right now.

Oblivious in his daze, Eren probably doesn’t notice Jean moving up his body until he’s sitting on Eren’s chest, fingers already wrapped in that destroyed bun of his and stroking himself desperately.

“God… _mmf…_ Eren, you’re so fucking beautiful… So perfect, just for me…” His voice is gritty with sex, and _fuck,_ the way Eren looks right now is hedonism itself. Ocean eyes alternate between Jean and Jean’s cock, a question written in a slight pull of brows. “Eren…can I come on your face? Hmm? Will you let me?”

Realization dawns, and thank everything unholy that Eren nods, a little sheepish and small but still undeniable affirmation. Jean has never felt so high in his life. He tugs Eren’s hair hard enough to hurt, and the tears that swell in his eyes along with the whine he gives Jean has him spilling over the edge onto Eren’s lips, his eyes, his hair, lost in ecstasy. He’s left ragged and panting, pumping out the last few drops of his pleasure before sitting back onto Eren’s stomach, empty and full all at once. It doesn’t occur to him that Eren needs, like, a towel or something until he props himself up onto an elbow, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

“Oh, _fuck,_ sorry, here—” Jean nearly falls from the couch as he tucks himself back in his pants and scrambles off of Eren to retrieve one of their discarded shirts. He swabs what he can see in the dim light, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as he pats. “I’m sorry, it just—kinda came over me—”

A laugh cuts him off, and Jean could really kiss Eren right now for it. “That was fun,” he says, breathy and light. Yeah. Jean moves the shirt away and kisses him, warm and slow.

“You’re perfect,” he repeats. “I can’t believe I thought I hated you all this time.”

“Idiot,” Eren mumbles, then smacks Jean on the head to punctuate the insult. Jean is pretty sure he’s falling in love with being smacked, of all things. “We’re here now, so who cares?”

 _Yeah. Who fucking cares?_ The cleanup is short—a few dabs here and there on the couch, Jean reckons can deal with whatever’s left in earnest tomorrow. He leads Eren to his room and gives him an old shirt and clean underwear of his, watches in awe as the guy he likes stands there in his large fitting clothes and frees his hair from its tie.

“You really fucked my hair up,” Eren comments absently as he looks into Jean’s dresser mirror, ruffling it a bit to work out the kinks.

“I’m sorr—”

“I liked it, dumbass.”

Today has been a whirlwind of tension and relief, but that bit might just take the cake for Jean. He changes into fresh clothes himself, foregoing pants to match Eren, and flops himself on that bed he’d pondered on just days ago attempting to deny himself of _this._ Who would’ve thought?

“’M too lazy to shower right now,” Jean says, wrapping himself up under the covers. Because he can, he adds, “’S cold.”

With a sudden surge of immediacy Eren turns from the mirror and all but jumps onto the bed, springing Jean from the mattress for a split second before the sheets are ripped off and pulled back up all in the blink of an eye. “You better not snore,” Eren warns, but he’s snuggling up to Jean’s side regardless of his reservations, one leg hooked over his.

“I don’t _snore,_ douchebag,” Jean retorts. His hand is in Eren’s hair again, limply twirling through long strands.

“Good. Because that might be a deal breaker.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Shut up, assface.”

“Good _night_ , Eren.”

“…Good night, Jean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aaaaand scene. This is my first AOT fic, my first erejean fic, and the first fic I’ve written in god knows how long. I hesitated to make it that smutty, considered making it Mature rating friendly, but then I thought there really isn’t enough erejean smut to go around, sooo…yeah. 
> 
> I have no idea what I ended up doing with Eren’s character, but I figured since he’s so oblivious to romance in canon he’d be a little timid when it comes to sex. Jean has definitely gotten his dick wet post timeskip, I mean…just look at that man. The plot’s neither here nor there; I probably should have changed their dynamic in the beginning to something a little less “I fucking hate you period” to more of a “there was already something there” kind of thing but I’ve been working on this ridiculously simple AU for days now and I just wanted to put it out there already without worrying too much about that. God I love erejean. I might write a follow-up fic to this—so if you enjoyed, please let me know! Kudos and comments are invaluable to me :)


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